Читать книгу The Scandalous Proposal Of Lord Bennett - Raven McAllan - Страница 9
ОглавлениеLord Theodore Bennett, known to his friends as Ben, and to his enemies – of whom there were several – as that bloody Bennett, rolled over in bed, and opened one brandy-bleary eye. No doubt if a mirror were handy, the eye would be as blood red as the wine he thought followed the brandy. Or was that before? Ben was more than a little hazy with regard to the previous night’s activities. The last he remembered was accepting a wager that he couldn’t empty the overlarge glass put in front of him, in one go. Had he? He had no idea, but it was a certainty someone would let him know if he owed them money.
Ben sighed, winced as the noise set off a blacksmith’s hammer in his head, stretched, and froze. Why was a bolster down the middle of his bed? A soft squidgy flesh-covered bolster? He patted it cautiously and it moved. He dropped his hand as if it were scalded, and tried to bring his thoughts into some form of order. It wasn’t easy.
A woman? He never spent the night with a woman. Never, ever. Bed them and leave them had always been his motto. And not in his own bed. That was a given. Everyone knew and accepted that. Didn’t they?
Somewhere in the back of his fragmented mind he remembered music and damned doves flying overhead. Doves, for fuck’s sake, and he didn’t even get a chance to take a pot shot at them. Had he been to Vauxhall to watch one of the many spectacles there? No, the music had been ‘churchy’, and … Oh my lord. A wife. I have a wife. The events of the previous day came back to him with immediate and hideous clarity. This needed to be discussed further. He reached out to the softness next to him and squeezed.
The bolster stirred and muttered something. Even in his less than awake state it didn’t sound complimentary. He pulled his hand back again. Soft fingers fumbled over his body, and fastened on his morning erection.
The screech sent sharp daggers of pain splintering through his head. Nails dug into his skin, and that hammer hit his skull with monotonous regularity.
‘For goodness’ sake, woman’ – he hoped to hell it was a woman – he didn’t think he’d suddenly discovered a propensity for his own sex – ‘there is no need to awaken every dog and monkey for streets around. Have you never felt a …?’ He paused. What polite way was there of informing your wife – or who he assumed must be his wife, for surely he was not debauched enough to take another woman to bed on his wedding night – how your body woke up every morning? Even, it seemed, after an excess of wine and brandy. ‘A man’s body like this? If not, get used to it.’
His wife – damned if his vision wasn’t so blurry he couldn’t define her features – struggled out of the bedclothes and sat up with the sheet clutched to her like a suit of armour.
‘Of course I haven’t. Who would want to feel that?’ She shuddered. ‘As for get used to it? In your dreams, not mine.’
She gulped. Actually showed distaste. Even in his bemused state Ben was astounded. It was a first. Women usually reacted in a much more positive manner.
‘Where is my nightrail? Oh thunderheads.’ Her dismay was obvious.
He glanced to where she looked. A flimsy cotton nightrail hung over the end of the bed, out of arm’s reach without her showing her all. It looked somewhat the worse for wear. Almost in tatters. Surely she could afford better? He wondered how it had got there. Ben didn’t remember taking part in that disrobing. Not that he had any recollection of having anything to do with, well, anything.
‘How? Oh, don’t tell me. Of course I haven’t. You told me …’ She shook her head in such a vigorous manner it hurt him to watch and blew several strands of hair off her cheeks. ‘Oh, never mind. Nevertheless, explain to me one thing, pray. Why?’ She spoke baldly, in a none-too-wifely manner.
Why? Why what? The state of my body? What I said?
‘Because this is me.’ He hoped it was the correct reply. By the way she pursed her lips he was none too sure. Ben tried to expand on his statement a little more. It wasn’t easy. He looked in her direction, saw three wives, and had no idea whom to address. However, he focused on the middle one and hoped for the best. He recognised her grim-looking countenance.
Clarissa? Her of the voluptuous body, and forbidding attitude. Oh sweet lord. She whom I have lusted after ever since the first time I rubbed up? He accepted he was deep in the mire. Lady Clarissa wasn’t one to appreciate his types of demands, even though they were honest and straightforward. Whenever he’d attempted to be gallant, she’d shot him down as if she thought he jested. He didn’t, but he’d never been able to make her see that. She shied away from him like a frightened filly – or virgin? In the end he gave up and used her image in his mind when he gave himself relief. That thought strengthened his staff even more. Good lord, if he wasn’t careful the evidence of how she affected him would begin to run down its length.
‘This you what? Are a drunkard?’ She snorted. ‘Then I’ll take my leave now and retire to the country and breed dogs. Big ones, with very large teeth, who have an aversion to men who imbibe too freely.’
Give me strength. She knows we are wed and it’s too late for anything else, except accept and move on. Why can she not just accept it? What have I done that I’ve forgotten?
‘This is me when I awaken. Get used to it, madam, wife.’ Was his tone as intimidating as he hoped?
Clarissa stared at him from under a dark-reddish-brown fringe of hair as if he were a curiosity escaped from the Egyptian Hall in Piccadilly.
Why does she have that frizz over her forehead? Dare I ask? Perhaps not.
‘Thankfully I won’t need to. It won’t bother me. As you gave me to believe we will not bed together.’
Perhaps this is not the time to discuss her hair.
‘Repeat that.’ Surely he hadn’t heard right?
She ground her teeth. Ben thought that was an expression, not something people actually did.
‘We. Will. Not. Bed. Together.’ She snapped each word out separately.
Definitely not the time.
Her expression dared him to contradict her. ‘Is that correct? What you told me? We will not share a bed?’
How often was she going to say that?
‘Not all the time, no,’ he said cautiously. Her hands were fisted on top of the sheet, and her knuckles shone white as she flexed and unflexed her fingers. He kept a wary eye on them. Lady Clarissa Macpherson was somewhat of an unknown quantity. She seemed biddable, but Ben was convinced he’d seen a less than placid gleam in her grey eyes on more than one occasion. He had often heard her reply to the so-called gallantry of his peers in a feisty and unladylike manner, and on one occasion told a prosy lord she preferred reading a book than listening to him. It might have gained her a reputation as a bluestocking and a termagant, but for Ben’s part he admired her for her spirit. Or he had. Now, with the Lightbobs charging though his head, he wasn’t so certain. Shouldn’t a wife be more sympathetic? Not if it’s Clarissa.
‘What do you mean, not all the time?’ Her voice rose, and he winced. ‘You said, and I quote, “I never spend the night with a woman. Never.”’
Really, loud noises and a hangover from hades didn’t go well together. Where had her father got the brandy? It had been definitely inferior. And he had said that? In essence it was the truth, but she had taken the literal sense much too far.
‘Keep your screeching to a minimum, for pity’s sake,’ he said, and hated the pleading and pitiful tone he used. ‘We’re married. I need an heir. Therefore we sleep, or not sleep, together.’ He kept his tone as level as he could, considering the band of the Coldstream Guards now played a rousing march in his head.
She raised one eyebrow. ‘Elucidate.’
‘We procreate. I spend my seed in you as many times as necessary until you’re with child.’
She shook her head. ‘That’s where you’re wrong. No sowing is necessary, my lord.’
What?
‘Pray tell me why not?’ His tone was too even for it to go unnoticed. Surely she wasn’t with child? If so, it wasn’t his, and he wasn’t going to be a cuckold.
‘You said, and I quote once more – please listen carefully – we married because you were protecting my honour. For no other reason. A chivalrous gesture that you seemed as surprised about as I was.’
Wrong, a gesture I was happy to make, although I hoped for a more positive reaction to me … us … our wedding and our … His mind faltered to a halt. Just because he wanted her, and thought his attitude might make her soften to him, didn’t mean it had.
‘You never mentioned heirs. Well, why would you? I evidently have … had,’ she corrected herself, ‘no effect on you. That result is reserved for others.’
‘Wrong,’ he muttered.
‘What? Oh, never mind,’ Clarissa said impatiently. ‘Why you decided we had to wed, I have no idea. You don’t want me, I’ll be a burden, and may be an obstacle in your … Ah, I see.’ She nodded her head. ‘Of course, ‘tis all clear now.’
Ben wished he saw. Her addlepated and meandering thoughts were too much for his alcohol-soaked brain to process.
‘You think I can be a deterrent to those who ask too much of you?’ She laughed and shook her head. ‘If you imagine for one moment that the presence – no, not the presence, as I wouldn’t be there … that the knowledge of a wife is enough of an impediment for some women, you are not as worldly wise as I suppose. I think to someone like Lady Fennister’ – she named his personal bête noir – ‘or … well, to others I could but won’t name, a wife is a reason to chase you.’
How she could see any amusement in the situation, Ben couldn’t fathom. Lady Fennister he hadn’t bedded and had no intention of doing so, but she was a burr in his side. One he needed to lose. He was uncomfortable, hungover and at sea to know how to ask one very important question. Did we consummate the marriage? Before he could enquire, she carried on with her theme.
‘Stand between you and your paramours?’ Clarissa shook her head. ‘Not a chance, my lord. You can sort your own problems.’ She folded her arms across the sheet. The action tightened it over her ample, and in his eyes perfectly proportioned, breasts. He looked at them, outlined in loving detail and then up to her face. Her expression was not welcoming. However, her lips, even pursed, were luscious and rosy, and even in his hungover state Ben wondered what they would feel like beneath his. They reminded him of someone … or rather of another pair of equally luscious lips. He couldn’t remember who they belonged to.
‘What are you staring at?’
Lord she’s mouthy. I know a way to stop that, if I have half a chance.
‘Just as, given the opportunity I would have sorted mine,’ Clarissa continued.
He was confused for a moment, until he realised she was still talking about the reason for their marriage. How women could carry a conversation with so many threads, swap between them and expect a man to follow and comment was beyond him in any state, not solely when his head was less than clear.
‘I could have used my knee very effectively to deter that idiot. Ferdy Pendragon has as much sense as my little finger,’ Clarissa said. ‘You, however, had to be a man.’
She invested the word with so much scorn that he blinked. Even that little action made his eyes hurt. Were they all that bad?
That was a fine way to thank me for my chivalry. So did we? How could you ask a question like that politely, and without admitting you had no idea of what had happened after your wife took your sword and stuck it in the cake with a muttered ‘if only it were you’?’
‘Even so, madam wife, I am a man. Some things are non-negotiable.’ He strove for an emphatic tone and was aware he fell well short of that specific mark. His voice sounded more like that of a constipated swan. ‘My heir is one of them. Who knows how long it will be before you’re with child.’ There, that was suitably ambiguous.
‘After last night?’ She shrugged and held her hands out in a ‘who knows’ gesture.
The action made the sheet slip until Ben imagined he could see the dusky outline of one rosy nipple. In her attempt at insouciance, it seemed Clarissa hadn’t realised. He had no intention of telling her.
‘Aeons I would think,’ Clarissa said. ‘Not that I know much about the mysteries of what is alleged to go on in the marital bed.’ And nor do I want to, her tone intimated. ‘But in ours it seems to be thus. To order me to said bed like I am an unruly child, when surely the boot is on the other foot. To leave me alone, wondering what next for hours. Then, lo and behold, you appear, stand at the door blinking myopically and squinting towards me, and utter the inane words, “Ah ha, tis you.” I wonder, who else were you expecting? No, on second thoughts do not answer that. I have no wish to know.’
Ben blinked. He had neither opened his mouth nor uttered a word. It seemed Clarissa hadn’t finished.
‘Next, you proceed to fall down across the bed, fling your arm in my general direction, miss me by several inches, grab hold of my nightrail and rip it to shreds.’
That accounted for the state of the garment, then.
‘After which you mutter some epithet or other, pinion me to the mattress by dint of passing out across my legs and proceed to snore. All night. At some point you roll to one side and use me as a pillow until you wake up with a log between your legs, and expect me to know what to do with it. I have an idea, but I also have an assumption it won’t be beneficial to your health. According to you, as we left the wedding feast, knives, swords and something you call cocks don’t mix. That is strange because I thought poultry and sharp edges work very well? One slice and the bird is ready. I’ve never subscribed to holding it in my bare hands and eating it. So messy.’
Ben choked back a laugh. Was she truly that naïve? The expression on her face said yes, the look in her eyes said no. He recognised his wife had hidden depths and was not about to divulge them.
Damn, now I want to know more. The original reason for their marriage, to whit, to save her from shame, and do nothing more than begat an heir, went out of the window. If, he acknowledged to himself, it had even been there in the first place. Lady Clarissa Macpherson had intrigued him for years. Ever since, as a schoolgirl with flyaway hair and that fuzzy fringe, she’d shied away from him as if he had the plague. Come to think of it, her attitude towards him hadn’t changed much.
The fringe. Where else had he seen one just like it? Hopefully one day he’d remember. Ben decided it was important. Not only that – if there were hidden depths to his wife, it was surely up to him to uncover them?
‘Clary, in all seriousness, I’m sorry. I overimbibed,’ he said seriously. ‘It’s to my shame I recollect very little of our wedding night.’ Now came the sticky question. ‘Did we not consummate our marriage?’
She slid out of the bed and took the sheet with her. One slim ankle showed briefly as she twisted the sheet round her like a toga inscribed on the friezes he’d seen in Egypt. He looked down at the tent in the remainder of the covers and grinned. Whatever she thought, his log was here to stay, until her body or his hands decreed otherwise. Sadly he thought it would be his hands.
‘Sir, my name is Clarissa, and I’m thankful to say we did not.’ She gave him a glare that would have felled a lesser man – and splintered his log into kindling – curtseyed, stumbled on the edge of the fine linen shrouding her, and righted herself. ‘Thunderheads.’ She swept out and into the bathing chamber like a galleon in full sail.
It was a pity she spoiled her exit by tripping again on the cloth and staggering into the other room.
Ben fell back on the pillows and laughed until tears rolled down his cheeks. Life was looking up.
****
Clarissa, Lady Bennett, née Lady Clarissa Macpherson, sat on the lid of the commode and held her head in her hands. Life was cruel. She kicked the linen sheet with her toes and cursed as once again it clung on as if its – and her own – life depended on it. Maybe it did. What on earth had she landed herself in? And why goad him? Retribution, and an imp of mischief that wanted to pay him back for the worry he’d put her through? More than likely. Plus, if she were honest, she had looked forward to her wedding night with excitement as well as trepidation, and felt let down. She’d wondered if she was to taste his kisses now as a young woman, not a girl.
Now she knew. No, she was not.
Clarissa sighed as she used the commode and then washed in the lukewarm water that had been left on the washstand, heaven knows when. What a mess.
It had been hours before she’d fallen asleep the night before. Her nerves had been as tight as the strings of a violin, and she’d gathered all her courage to decide to face the perils and pitfalls of the unknown facets of the marriage night. Surely he would be gentle? Explain everything and make her a woman in the full sense of the word, as considerately and kindly as could be? As time ticked by, Clarissa had become more and more wound up. When the bedroom door opened and he had made his way with exaggerated care across the bedchamber floor, she had shivered, although whether in fear or excitement she didn’t examine. Then he’d pulled his banyan off and stared at her owlishly.
She’d stared back. His naked body shone in the soft candlelight, and reminded her of the sculpture of a Greek god she’d seen. Every angle, plane and – she gulped at the thought – his masculinity were highlighted in perfect detail. Her mouth went dry. The sculpture had been anatomically correct, something she had seriously doubted, even after she had equated that hard rod he’d pressed against her all those years ago with that part of the drawing that angled out proudly from the top of his legs. Until that moment she had still distrusted those pamphlets stowed safely in the secret drawer of her escritoire. Now, however …
Her pulse jumped and her mouth was dry. Was this it?
‘Hello? What have I here?’ The words were slurred and ran into each other.
Before she had a chance to reply, he’d hiccoughed, pitched forward, grabbed her nightrail, and torn it on his downward slide. Then he’d collapsed into a semi-drunken stupor onto the bed and proceeded to snore and snort for the hours of darkness.
She’d wriggled out of the remains of her nightwear, and put it to one side. Sitting on rough edges and torn threads was less than comfortable. Clarissa pondered dark thoughts of retribution. That nightrail was – or had been – beautiful, and even if it was intended, so her godmama said, to be taken off, she was sure Godmama hadn’t meant quite in the manner it had happened.
The watch had called six o’clock before she fell into an uneasy sleep. It hadn’t been many hours later before she was wakened by his groping arm and his … his … She shuddered. His thing. If she hadn’t been quite so worried what he intended, she could have sniggered over the list of names suggested for it. Staff, rod, cock … When her hand touched it, it wriggled, and reared up like an excited horse. Almost as if it had a mind of its own. It was one thing admiring it from afar, but close at hand – and hand was the operative word – it was something else.
Sniggering over caricatures and lithographs of a naked man and his appendages was not the same as seeing and feeling them unexpectedly. Last evening she’d been ready to become his wife and to touch and play as he directed. Now, in the cold light of day, and after his behaviour of the night before, she was less enthusiastic.
Clarissa sighed and hunted for her hairbrush. Really, this marriage business was a nuisance. Her maid had been told to leave them until she was called, as had Ben’s valet. So now Clarissa had to hook herself into her dress and try to do something with mahogany-coloured corkscrew curls that had a mind of their own. And the dratted fringe. Whatever she did it looked like a twig brush. It wouldn’t grow out tidily, and she had learned to live with it. However, she’d seen the looks gentlemen had given it, and Ben had been no different. Astonished and amused summed their expressions up perfectly. After a cursory tug and brush she ignored it. It would do as it preferred whatever she did. Eventually, she tied her hair back in a loose chignon, and pulled on a plain day gown with laces down the front. With a glance and a grimace in the mirror, she left the room and returned to the bedchamber. Thence to stop suddenly. Ben was sprawled across the bed on his back, naked as the day he was born. He’d kicked the covers down to his ankles and not one part of his front was hidden from view.
Oh, what a view.
Clarissa gulped and stared at the thick staff that stood proudly up from his body, and waved hello. Now she was able to study it carefully, and unobserved, she was both fascinated and, in a strange way, repelled. That was supposed to fit into her? Oh, it had felt large when she’d grasped it earlier, but not that size, and in the moonlight she had decided her vision emphasised the size rather than diminished it. Now she realised her mistake. There was no chance that could be accommodated inside a woman. Someone surely had their facts wrong?
‘Do you like what you see?’ Her husband was awake and watching her through hooded eyes. ‘Shall I show you more?’
Her hands went to her warm cheeks. Now was a time she could have done with a fan, and not for coy or flirtatious purposes either. His eyes, although still cloudy, had a look in them, which her governess would have called devilry, and Clarissa decided was studied wickedness. If she didn’t stand up to him now, she never would.
‘Why?’ She feigned nonchalance, and thought she may well have succeeded. ‘You have shown me nothing so far to make me wish to see more.’
His eyes cleared and dark lights of fire flashed. Then his mouth firmed in a straight line. ‘Really? I must be slacking.’
She shrugged. ‘Perhaps fine wines and brandy have that effect on you, my lord. Make you slack. You sampled enough to discover whether my words are true or not.’ Clarissa ignored his snort of outrage and his muttered oath and swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. She wanted no more than to reach for the glass of water next to the bed. However, she knew enough about men to know Ben would see it as a sign of weakness, and pounce on it like a cat with a mouse.
To give herself time, and to rid the room of the noxious smell of stale alcohol, Clarissa walked over to the windows, pulled back the curtains, and pushed up the sash, thence to let warm, fresh air and sunshine fill the room. It was lucky this room overlooked a pleasant and tidy garden, filled with scented flowers and not the road, where the aromas would certainly not be fresh and sweet.
Ben groaned. ‘Woman, you are trying to kill me.’
‘Fresh air never killed anyone, my lord. And if you persist in smelling like a cast-off from a tavern, you’ll need the benefits. To put it bluntly, you stink worse than any privy.’ She dusted her hands together and after a brief, very brief glance down his body, stared at his face. Her words seemed to have little effect on his body. Clarissa willed herself not to blush.
‘I do, do I? My poor wife. How shall we remedy that?’ Ben jumped off the bed and stalked stiff-legged towards her.
Out of the corner of her eye she noticed his gait made his cock wave about as if in welcome to her.
‘Perhaps you could bathe me and show me what’s needed?’ His tone was challenging.
Clarissa dug her nails into her hands. He would not trifle with her, and she would not rise to his bait. ‘Perhaps?’ She shrugged insouciantly. ‘But why should I bother? You have nothing to interest me, and on past showing, I have nothing that interests you. Why waste time? You drink yourself into oblivion, and I … I? I will …’ She ran out of words as he continued to move closer until he stopped a few inches in front of her. One more step and his body would touch hers.
‘You will?’ he asked silkily.
‘Go and have breakfast.’
Damn him.
She left the room at a most indecorous speed. His mocking laughter followed her as she headed down the stairs. Why on earth had she acted in that way? Oh yes, he’d annoyed her, and in truth intrigued her. Because if what she’d read happened, did happen, well …
Hot chocolate and a light breakfast should calm her, surely? And get rid of the strange tingles and shudders that had run through her when she’d stared at her husband. First, though, she needed to walk. Clarissa turned away from her original destination, and made her way along a narrow corridor to where a door led into the larger than average town garden. At least Bennett House had one. So many great town houses didn’t enjoy such a thing. The screech of the bolt which secured the door, as she withdrew it from its casing, made her think few people ever ventured into this outdoor space, even though it was there. She made a mental note to ask Ben to have the lock and bolt oiled, and inform the servants that the garden was for everyone. After all, how often would it be used otherwise?
The thoughts brought her up short. A wifely task? What was she thinking? She had no desire to act as a wife – complaisant or otherwise – hated town and had no intention of spending a minute longer in the metropolis than she had to. The niggly thought that perhaps she would have no say in the matter, she ignored. As she did the one that sneakily told her she’d love to be his wife … his proper, no-holds-barred, forsaking-all-others – for both of them – wife. Clarissa wrenched open the door and walked out into the fresh air.
The scents that wafted up into the bedroom didn’t do the garden justice. Or maybe they had no chance against stale brandy?
Why had she reacted to Ben in such a way? It was guaranteed to put his back up – and it seemed his staff. She giggled, her heart suddenly lighter. She could neither change her way of thinking than a leopard could change its spots. To be outspoken and forward-thinking was ingrained in her. Ever since her mama died, her papa had tried his best to be both parents to her. But as he had often admitted, the workings of a woman’s mind remained a mystery to him, as they did to most men. She loved him dearly, and was more than happy with the strength and independence he’d helped her gain. However, Clarissa would be the first person to admit that her attitude didn’t go down well with most of the ton. It had never bothered her before; in fact she had actively cultivated their view of her. Until Ben had shown his chivalrous side, that is, and she had started to wish he saw her as more than an encumbrance. She still hadn’t decided why he had come to her aid, although to be seen stroking her ankle could well have become the scandal of the decade.
Life was so complicated. Clarissa sighed and began to walk.
The garden was immaculate, but even so, she had the impression it wasn’t loved. No lady of the house came and picked the flowers or walked the lawns. No guests spilled out of the dining room or the ballroom to walk the terrace and enjoy the soft evening air. It was a pity, and Clarissa knew, even though there was now a mistress of the house, nothing would change. The thought depressed her in some strange way, and she retraced her steps inside, and thence to make her way to the breakfast room.
The footman looked at her strangely as she walked in alone, and at such an early hour, but he merely bowed.
‘My lady.’
Clarissa bit her lip. Although she’d been a Lady all her life there were ladies and there were ladies. As the married Lady Bennett she was of a higher echelon than the unmarried Lady Clarissa Macpherson. She’d have to find that hat and learn how to wear it. In her father’s house, once her rakish, but strangely staid, pompous and proper with regard to her, elder brother had moved out, she and her father had lived life very informally.
Tarnation, I can only be what I am. Stuffiness and pomposity didn’t sit well with Clarissa’s true nature. She smiled at the young footman. He swallowed and his Adam’s apple bobbed.
‘C … can I get you some breakfast, my lady?’ His voice squeaked and he blushed the colour of the deep red cushions on the chairs.
‘Just chocolate and a light meal, please.’ She ignored his embarrassment. He was new and no doubt scared. ‘Eggs, perhaps?’ What was his name? ‘Timothy.’ She remembered at the last minute and was glad she’d done so when his face lit up. ‘Of course, my lady.’
Nothing was said about Ben, and Clarissa chose not to mention him. Her mother had died when Clarissa was in leading reins, and she and her father always breakfasted together. Clarissa had no idea if that was the norm or not, but felt it best not to comment unless she was asked a direct question.
She waited until the man left the room, and stared at the twelve-foot-long table. If Ben did appear and they sat at either end, they would need to communicate by signs – did he know semaphore? – or a written note. For a family dining table it was ridiculous. How stupid did Ben feel when he ate alone?
As if on cue the man himself appeared. His eyes were red and bloodshot, and his normally immaculate hair appeared to have been in a fight with a hedge and lost. The cravat tied around his neck was more Belcher than Bennett, and all in all he looked, well, disreputable. She risked a quick peep downwards, but nothing hard spoiled the neat fit of his pantaloons. Clarissa wasn’t sure whether to be pleased or disappointed.
He took one swift glance at her and sighed. ‘How many apologies do I owe you?’
She shrugged. He looked like a little boy who had been caught red-handed tormenting the chickens, or trying to ride the family sow, and it was hard to keep a straight face. For the first time, Clarissa had an idea life was not going to be as straightforward as she hoped. ‘If you need to ask, then the answer is, of course, none.’
‘I was afraid of that. Several then.’ He essayed a grin. She didn’t respond and he rubbed his chin with one hand. ‘But as at this moment I have no recollections of my misdemeanours, I’ll save the specifics until I do. Until that time, please consider them given.’
‘Of course, my lord,’ Clarissa said levelly. ‘Shall I ring for the footman?’
He shook his head and winced. ‘Argh, of all the idiotic, stupid … Sorry, no need. I’ll sit and die quietly until one appears.’
It was difficult not to let her lips twitch at the air of pathos that surrounded him, but she hardened her heart. Everything he suffered was self-inflicted. If she wasn’t careful he’d run rings around her, and Clarissa was honest enough to know that could only end in heartache. ‘As you wish.’
‘You’re all heart, my dear.’
She chose not to answer as the soft swish of a door opening caught her attention. A few seconds later a plate of eggs and slices of crusty bread were set in front of her, and a chocolate pot and cup placed to one side. She thanked the footman who bowed and turned to Ben.
‘My lord?’
‘I’ll have what my wife is having,’ he said.
The footman’s eyes widened. ‘Chocolate, my lord?’
Ben blanched and Clarissa hid her face with her napkin as he then turned green and got up so abruptly his chair crashed down behind him. He left the room in a hurry.
Clarissa turned to the footman. ‘I think he means the eggs, Timothy.’
